Cut
by ummwhatisthistobe
Summary: Edgar cuts his sister's hair, but, knowing the twins, it's never that simple.


It's an astounding feeling to hold this much power in your own hands. To have this control, the ability to change the future—

"Would you just cut it already?" Ellen snaps, turning around from her seat and smacking my arm. "You've been standing there uselessly for _years_!"

"Alright, sister. I thought you wanted it done _perfectly_." I shrug off her hidden threat, mocking her supposed trust in me. She thinks she's intimidating because she's a _tiny_ bit older than I am, but whenever we fight or have prank wars, I always win. Botany rarely comes in handy when we're in the midst of a war.

She glares at me, and I'm suddenly aware of just how much we resemble each other. If I cut her hair like mine, there would be two Edgars. Of course, I wouldn't be able to sleep safely for months, but it would be the ultimate prank. . .

And of course I can't do that. I love her hair. It's one of the only things that make us stand out from the other. No one, of course, bothers to figure out who we are, but that doesn't matter to either of us.

"Just use the scissors and snip off like six inches," she instructs, as if I'm ten years younger than her instead of about a minute. I glower at her, and she turns around.

Her hair was, according to Ellen's high and mighty standards, too long for functionality. I guess she's right. When we go digging for useful knick-knacks in the Gadget Graveyard, she always seems to be blowing it out of her face, as it's took long to tie back completely.

I'm staring, I know, but somehow it's not bothering me.

Despite our rare and infrequent showers, her hair is still long and glossy. I pat it gently, like her hair is suddenly Pet—though I'd never, ever touch it like it's Ellen's hair—and it's occurring to me that I don't want her hair to be back at its barely-under-the-shoulder length.

When her hair is this long, she has to tie it back instead of in two pigtails, and I find her prettier—I obviously need my head checked—that way. (Though it sounds a bit arrogant to say that, seeing as we're twins.)

Not that I would ever, _ever_ admit that to my _dear_ sister.

I'm supposed to cut her hair both because we can't afford to pay for a haircut and because she would never trust the barber, or anyone else in Nod's Limbs for that matter. I should be flattered that she trusts me, but it really is only a matter of 'cut it myself and look terrible' or 'have Edgar cut it and look _so_ much better.' That has to be what she's thinking.

"What're you doing?" She's facing me again, and it occurs to me that we haven't been in such close contact in a long time. I detangle my hand from her hair, realizing that I had been stroking it and making her uncomfortable. And though I can see her confusion and obvious annoyance, she seems embarrassed. I pretend not to notice that her cheeks are abnormally red compared to our normal, ashen faces.

I grab a clump of her hair and snip it off, watching the black strands flutter uselessly to the ground. She doesn't seem satisfied.

"Give me those!"

Why am I not handing her these worthless things?

Ellen jumps out of the seat and pounces on me, trying to snatch the shears that are, for some reason, tightly grasped in my hand.

We tumble uncomfortably for I think a minute, and she is basically standing on top of me when she gets the scissors.

Her hair brushes against my face as she scrambles away from me. I feel like my face is on fire and get up slowly, knowing that obvious bruises are starting to form on my arms and stomach.

Ignoring the pain shooting through my body, I stare at her. I'm staring blankly at her as she ties her hair in her two signature pigtails, of course unusually long with the added seven inches. And it barely registers to me as she snips mercilessly at her hair.

"Here." She chucks the scissors—ignoring the dangers of scissor-to-eye-contact, I'm sure—at me and smiles, though it's really more of a smirk. Ellen shakes her head, and I stare at her pigtails, the ones I enjoy tugging on too much. Her hair is kind of shaggy now. I guess because it isn't supposed to be cut like how she did it.

I'll live. It's not that big of a deal, I guess.

Sometimes I wonder how we get along so well, as we take an abnormal pleasure in torturing each other—more than other siblings, or so I've heard.

I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that I follow her around like a lovesick puppy.

And I know we don't _love_ each other. . .

She pulls our latest contraption out from behind the couch, a contraption _I_ built, and I take it to mean that we're off.

I shake my head and follow her, knowing that we're off to another prank involving Stephanie Knightleigh.


End file.
